


In the Beauty of the Lilies

by e_p_hart



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: American Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_p_hart/pseuds/e_p_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His truth is marching on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Beauty of the Lilies

The grass is burning along with the trees.  
  
John can’t see anything but smoke; he covers his mouth with his sleeve and coughs. The bugle is sounding, but distantly.  
  
"Sir!" The shout is so close it is painful; there is Henry Lewis, tugging at his sleeve. "This way, sir! We’re gathering away from the smoke, sir! General Mower gave the order!"  
  
"Yes." But too softly, so, again: "Yes!" John careens after Henry through the smoke. There! on the side of the road, his regiment, huddled together. They hail their commander with a chorus of wearily raised arms. John doesn’t try to shout to them all, merely jerks his head in a direction away from the fire and heads off into the forest.  
  
He stops them a good ways away from the chaos and finds his bearings, crouched down in the leaves, using a dead log as a table for the map. The river is to their left; he walks his fingers along the side of the line and figures in his head.  
  
"We should be able to meet up with the main forces"-he taps on the particular town-dot- "here. That’s ten miles. The good news is, they’ve got to go fifteen miles by the road, so as long as we march none-too-leisurely we should get there with time to laze around and spare."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Yes, what is it, Cavot."  
  
Cavot coughs and scratches at the dead leaves on the ground with a foot. "Sir, are you sure we’re supposed to head back towards the Landing?"  
  
"Those were my orders. Any other questions?" There are none, so they head off, coughing the rest of the smoke from their lungs from time to time.  


* * *

  
The day is blisteringly hot and muggy, even for Mississippi in May, and the clouds of smoke from the rout keep the sunshine beating down on their necks.  
  
It wasn’t a rout, John keeps having to remind himself; they did what they were supposed to and gave those Mississippi Army men something to think about--  
  
The sweat trickling down his face stings his eyes. He wipes at it angrily. He saw three of his company die, and many more he didn’t know stumble and fall, and he thinks he should have turned down this command, he should have said no-- but there had been no time. Damn General Banks! All this effort to cross a river and they end up burning a forest and losing good soldiers. John wants to spit in Banks’ face.  
  
He stops for a moment against a tree, taking a long draught of water from his canteen. The smoke behind them is growing worse, and they haven’t been walking for more than an hour. He roars at them to pick up the pace, and his men, Northerners all, glance up with raw, red faces and roll their eyes, stepping not one whit faster.  
  
"Colonel," Henry Lewis grates, through a throat sore from coughing, "are we going to make it afore dark?"  
  
"If you lazy bums will walk any faster," John says.  
  
"At least we’ll be able to see," another of his men pants. "After dark, I mean, ‘cause it’ll be lit up like Independence Day, with the trees all on fire."  
  
"Where’re you from, with such a huge celebration?" someone calls.  
  
"Eastport. It’s pretty much in Canada."  
  
They all laugh breathlessly.  


* * *

  
  
John thinks they’re not going to make it before the sun sets.  
  
As far as he can tell, at least they’re going the right way, but somehow it’s taking them much too long to get to the other bend in the river. John pauses to unfold the map once more, and double-check both the compass around his neck and the sun sinking ever faster over their shoulders-- yes, they should just about be there. A shout to his right jerks them all out of their trudging stupors, and they all stand around the tableaux in horror.  
  
"W-what is that?" someone whispers.  
  
The first thing John feels is the scent, a heavy copper miasma of rotting meat, followed quickly by the sound of the flies and the wasps, and the retching of the men, while he stands transfixed by the sight. There are four of them, and they’re wearing the remains of Federal uniforms, just traces of blue wool hanging here and there. They are-- they are--  
  
He has to turn away.  
  
"I don’t know what that is, and I don’t care," he says, eyes tightly closed. "We shouldn’t leave them here like this."  
  
"Colonel!"  
  
"You can’t be serious!"  
  
"I’m not going anywhere near them, Colonel."  
  
"They were part of our army," John says, still not looking. "We owe them respect."  
  
The others look sheepish and green, and stubborn. They won’t help. Knowing he’ll regret it, John says, "If you won’t help, then get going." Murmurs. He raises his voice. "Keep the sun behind you and you should meet the road in about three miles. Get going! Haverty, I’m appointing you to report to the Generals."  
  
"Sir, we won’t leave you." Their eyes glint mutinously.  
  
"Anyone who stays will be helping me bury these unfortunates." That gets through to them, and they trudge off. Only Henry Lewis stays behind, and his face is so white that John has to order him to sit down before he faints. The boy does, and puts his head between his knees and breaths deeply.  
  
John approaches the first of the dead men. The crucifix is crude, and the base isn’t buried sturdily in the red earth, and it knocks over easily. The body nearly falls apart when it hits the ground, and John nearly vomits. He doesn’t, though, and finds a good stick and begins to poke at the earth. Henry Lewis comes to join him and together they manage to dig a shallow grave. The hardest part is when John has to cut the rope holding the body to the wood, and by the time they finish piling dirt over the body, it is the semi-darkness of gloaming.  
  
Only three more, John thinks, and start to approach another when Henry Lewis gives a warning cry. John doesn’t see it coming.  


* * *

  
  
The glow of a fire cuts into the darkness.  
  
John lies on soft mud and leaves, and he hears the gentle rush of wind through the trees and the lap of water nearby, and the fire is small and just over his head, crackling seriously to itself. His head throbs in time to the cicadas’ droning siren. He cautiously opens his eyes. Henry Lewis’s scared face looks back at him. "Henry," John says.  
  
Crashes. Someone, back to the fire and face in shadow, approaches them. "You shut your mouths," he says, and kicks  
  
John viciously in the mouth. "I won’t have my plans ruined because of some self-righteous Northern scum." The figure has a thick country accent, and he breathes heavily through his nostrils. Apparently satisfied with his violence, the figure retreats, leaving John to quietly spit out blood.  
  
"Henry," John breathes through swollen lips, "what happened?"  
  
Hardly louder than the wind, Henry James whispers, "He snuck up on you and whacked you with a rifle butt. I didn’t hear him coming until he was right there. I tried to run, but he jumped on me and tied me up, and then tied you up too. He left, for a long time, and when he came back, he started that fire." Henry stops, tears trembling in his eyes. "I can hear him talking to himself, sir. He’s crazy. He’s going to kill us, he’s going to crucify us like the others and leave us to die--"  
  
"I TOLD YOU TO SHUT YOUR MOUTHS." The figure stomps back and crouches down beside Henry Lewis, wrenching boy’s head back with a harsh hand on his hair. Henry Lewis cries out in pain. "That hurt, boy? Good."  
  
"What are you doing?" More crashing through leaves. "Leave them alone."  
  
"But--"  
  
"I said you could help me, Elton, but if you don’t do it my way, you can leave."  
  
Elton grumbles to himself and releases Henry, brushing hair off his hands as he goes back towards the fire. John can hear the two men arguing, one angrily and one calmly, quietly. Eventually, the quiet man wins, and Elton disappears into the trees.  
  
"I apologize for my friend," the quiet man says, standing over John and Henry.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" Henry Lewis bursts out. "Let us be!"  
  
The quiet man surveys them a moment. He goes to the fire and pulls out a burning branch before returning to crouch beside them and peer into their faces. Henry Lewis flinches back, but John stares back impudently. The quiet man is crazy too; but his crazy is inside, behind his eyes, making them just a little too bright and knowledgeable. His face is young and handsome, his hair a light brown. His eyes are pale green and rimmed with long lashes. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the quiet man turns his back on them and throws the branch back into the fire.  
  
"Henry," John whispers, "if we get a chance to escape, I want you to take it. I’ll distract them, and--"  
  
"No!" Henry Lewis whispers back fiercely. "I won’t leave you with them to die!"  
  
"Then you’ll die too!"  
  
"If you’re planning on trying to escape," the quiet man says to them, "don’t bother. You won’t have a chance."  
  
Henry Lewis swallows. "Why are you doing this?"  
  
"With my help," the quiet man says dreamily, "the South will win the war."  
  
  
What? John mouths.  
  
"Oh, yes. We will win this war, with God on our side. I am assured of that."  
  
"You’re crazy," John says aloud. "At least let the boy go. He’s young. I’ll stay."  
  
"No!" Henry Lewis screams.  
  
"You can both stay," the quiet man says.  
  
There really isn’t much more to say.  


* * *

  
  
Elton eventually comes back, with him a group of, from the sound of it, about twenty or so others. The quiet man greets him.  
  
Everything subsides into silence.  
  
Suddenly, both John and Henry Lewis are grabbed by their elbows and dragged to their feet. John’s head pounds.  
  
Henry Lewis screams until someone hits him, and he subsides into whimpers. Their torsos are bound to logs, and once they are secure, their captors cut their arms free so they can be placed outstretched onto the limbs of the crucifix. John begins to struggle then, despite his throbbing head, and he can hear Henry Lewis somewhere beside him doing the same, but it is no use.  
  
"Henry," John calls, breath ragged. "Don’t be afraid. Henry."  
  
He’s only a boy, John thinks. He’s only a boy, and what are these creatures doing to them--  
  
The only warning he gets is a flourishing of something metallic in the small glimmer of the fire, and then excruciating pain as they hammer into his feet, and then his wrists. He bites through his lip trying not to scream, but fails in the end, knowing that it’s just going to make poor Henry Lewis even more frightened but still not being able to stop--  
  
They leave him alone and attend to Henry Lewis, and it’s ten times, and hundred times worse listening to Henry’s pain, even with feeling the hot blood pour with every spastic heartbeat from the wounds in John’s feet and wrists. "Henry,"  
  
John rasps. "Henry."  
  
"Your death will allow us to live," the quiet man says, very near John’s ear. "You should be pleased."  
  
The world tilts dangerously-- no, they’re just swinging the crucifix upright and placing the base in a hole right beside a tree. A rope scrapes his forehead, a small pain, as they swing it over his head to tie the top of the crucifix to the tree. John’s neck won’t support his head, and he can see Henry Lewis out of the corner of his eyes, on a tree just nearby.  
  
They gagged him, and John can hear him choke on the cloth they stuffed in his mouth.  
  
"Please," he whispers. "Please, he’s choking."  
  
The world is spinning around him, ground, fire, treetops, ground, fire, treetops, mass of faceless people viewing them silently, waiting for something.  
  
The quiet man steps forward, holding something. "I will only give you what Our Lord also received."  
  
John’s chest burns. "Please," he says. The cicadas are louder than he is. He can smell blood, and water, and mud, and flowers, something sweet and overpowering.  
  
The quiet man, eyes crazy and calm, stares at John while he stabs him in the side. John cries out, unable to get a good breath.  
  
Henry Lewis is quiet on his crucifix, dangling senselessly, choked to death on a piece of cloth. The quiet man stabs him anyway.  
  
Quiet of the woods, the un-quiet of night.  
  
"In the beauty of the lilies," the quiet man whispers, just loudly enough to be heard by all, "Christ was born across the sea, with a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me. As He died to make men holy, let you die to make men free."  
  
"No," John gasps.  
  
"God is marching on," the quiet man says.  
  


* * *

  
  
The sun rises. John watches the sun rise, alone, breath a rattling dirge, eyes half-mast against the glare of sunlight on the water.  
  
It is beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Not strictly historically accurate, of course, as far as the usage of the song. The actual battle mentioned did bear some research, as did the layout of the land. Ah. Yeah.


End file.
